


Figuring It Out

by TheLastDodo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 10:58:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3647811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLastDodo/pseuds/TheLastDodo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And as he watches he sees John the way he’s been seeing him all of this time - his John, John who yells at him but his eyes are soft, John who writes stupid blog entries about them, John who is obviously in love with him. And Sherlock sees himself in that, too, because he sees that he is also obviously in love with John, and he can see that they’re both cowards and neither will admit it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Figuring It Out

It’s quiet when Sherlock figures it out, quiet in a way that’s not really, literally quiet. It’s quiet in their own way, in 221b, in their respective armchairs. It’s quiet with John and his blog - their blog - and it’s quiet because it can be. But it’s not literally quiet because John is talking and talking about something - something that Sherlock isn’t listening to, but is pretending to pay attention, and even though he’s not listening he’s watching. Always watching, because he’s Sherlock, and that’s what Sherlock does.

And as he watches he sees John the way he’s been seeing him all of this time - his John, John who yells at him but his eyes are soft, John who writes stupid blog entries about them, John who is obviously in love with him. And Sherlock sees himself in that, too, because he sees that he is also obviously in love with John, and he can see that they’re both cowards and neither will admit it.

It’s quiet when he figures it out because he figures it out quietly and doesn’t give it away, not really. All he does is blink, once, and that’s all of the physical response. There’s no big revelation, no great gasp and emotionally murmured name and no _they lived happily ever after_. They’re living happily enough now, thank you very much.

What does he figure out, then? If he already knows they’re in love and he already knows they’re afraid and he already knows they’re neither friends nor lovers, but something more? What he figures out he keeps to himself and doesn’t tell John, but the thought is at the front of his mind and he’s not really listening to what John is talking about because he’s thinking one thing and one thing only.

_We are all that’s standing in our way._

 

It’s loud when John figures it out. Loud in the literal way, because John is the opposite of Sherlock and yet the same. It’s loud because they’re in the middle of a crime scene and there’s a body and a crowd and cars and police sirens, and yet neither of them is looking at the body, they’re looking at each other. They’re looking at each other because that’s what they do, and everyone is tired of it, everyone just wants them to get it over and done with but no.

John figures it out quietly, in his own mind - and Sherlock would say that it’s always quiet in his mind, half-serious - but it’s loud all around them because London is loud. They’re looking at each other’s eyes, not where they’re supposed to be looking right now, and yet where they always ought to be looking. Lestrade is talking and Anderson is taunting and Donovan just wants to go home, but Sherlock and John are ignoring them because Sherlock knows it and John’s just now figured it out.  
It’s always taken him a bit of time to catch up with Sherlock Holmes.

_We are all that’s standing in our way._

 

John watches Sherlock. It’s a habit he’s picked up from the detective himself, but who can blame him. John watches Sherlock.

Sherlock’s fingers fly over the screen of the phone, over the keyboard, they play and tease the violin, they grip the gun or the sword or whatever other weapon Sherlock gets his hands on - and John watches. And watching Sherlock’s fingers makes John look down at his own. He sees the tan lines where his skin is a bit paler on his ring finger, where there was a ring not too long ago. He sees the callouses and the little bit of smudged ink and oh, when did he get that cut, who knows.

Sherlock plays his violin and the music is beautiful, and John doesn’t really know what it is but he enjoys it. Then Sherlock tells him it’s something he’s composed, he refuses to tell him the title. _Ah_ , John thinks, _must be personal then_.

 

Sherlock thinks that John is an idiot, because John takes too long to figure it out and then Sherlock thinks they’re both idiots because neither of them dares make the first move. He thinks they’re cowards and he thinks he loves John so much and he writes a song. He writes a song and he plays it and John says he likes it, and Sherlock thinks he’ll figure it out but he doesn’t because John is an idiot. Sherlock is angry at John because of that, and he’s angry at himself because he’s the same.

Sherlock refuses to tell John the title. John nods and his face clears in understanding, and Sherlock thinks that John gets it, finally, but it’s the wrong look in his eyes, the wrong look on his face and Sherlock sees that John understands something else, something wrong.

Sherlock thinks they’re a couple of idiots.

 

John is a doctor, so John understands things. When John watches Sherlock, he understands all the wrong things. He sees that Sherlock is angry and pent up and frustrated about something, but John doesn’t see what - and when he thinks that, he can hear Sherlock’s voice in his head, _You do see, you just don’t observe!_

John sighs and turns on the TV. And it’s loud and pointless and that’s okay, because John thinks he needs things to just be pointless and easy for once.

 

Sherlock isn’t sure what to do anymore so he doesn’t do anything. He still refuses to admit defeat - he’s not giving up, he’s just pausing, stopping to take a breath, to think, to try and see better.  

And he thinks he sees, because he thinks that his heart is a treacherous thing for putting him through this but really, it’s his mind, and that just makes it all the more confusing. His mind is the one thing Sherlock was supposed to be able to rely on, his mind was supposed to be calculating and sharp. His mind wasn’t supposed to be a disadvantage. He hears his own voice in his head, and it makes him want to laugh or cry or punch something. _Human error._

 

John thinks that there was a time before Sherlock, and wasn’t that a horrible time. He got shot and then he wanted to get shot again, by his own hand. John thinks there was a time for Sherlock before him, too. But, he thinks, that seems entirely illogical and ridiculous. In his mind, in his memory, there’s always been Sherlock, because they’ve always been Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock.

John without Sherlock or Sherlock without John is silly.

 

Sherlock thinks a lot about a lot of things. He thinks all the time. But, mostly, he thinks about John.

They’re content the way they are. Not quite a couple, not quite friends, something more, something bigger, greater than that. Something so woven and tied around and to and in itself that Sherlock can’t deny it. Because it’s not Sherlock without John and it’s not John without Sherlock; because when they’re apart, one gets scars on his back and the other gets scars in his heart.

Because one of them gets scars in their heart and the other gets scars on their back.

 

 _I will burn the heart out of you._ Sherlock remembers that, not because he was scared but because John had a bomb on him and Moriarty had figured it out before Sherlock. He remembers it because he knows now, he knows that he’s the mind and John’s the heart, and then he lets out a small laugh because this whole thing is ridiculous. Because John and Sherlock are ridiculous.

 

 _Sherlock is actually a girl’s name,_ he says. They laugh. They hate themselves for laughing, for doing what they’ve done, for being cowards and for not figuring it out.

Sherlock thinks back to that moment. He thinks it would’ve been very awkward if he had said something else. He thinks he couldn’t have done that to Mary, or to John, or to the baby. He thinks that it’s better off this way.

He thinks that’s he’s an idiot and there’s no point in dwelling on the past.

 

There’s a body, again, another one, and there’s a note on the body, a small piece of paper stuck to the breast of a dead man, and in neat handwriting it says, _Did you miss me?_

Sherlock has half a mind to write _No._ If only to annoy Anderson, because he’s the one that has to clean up.

 

John has nightmares. Lots of them. Sometimes it’s the war, sometimes it’s finding Sherlock dead, bleeding out on the pavement; and sometimes it’s a baby crying. _My baby_ , John thinks, and maybe he cries, because if he does he can’t feel it. He remembers slipping the ring from his finger and putting it back in its small perfect velvet box, he remembers sending Mary away, he remembers watching her plane take off and he remembers the weird feeling of deja vu. He remembers when he stood on that same tarmac and watched Sherlock leave.

John remembers, and he thinks there’s no point in dwelling on the past.

Then he goes back to sleep.

 

It’s quiet when Sherlock gives in. One can only dance so much, and they’ve been dancing forever, to the sound of crying violins. Sherlock is done dancing. He’s not a very patient man.

It’s not literally quiet, of course. It’s just the two of them, again, and John is listening to Sherlock and Sherlock is talking about something, again, about a case or a dead body, a puzzle or a riddle or what, he’s not sure exactly. But John is looking at him and Sherlock can see him trying to understand everything, to put the pieces together himself, and then he figures it out and he gets this sort of happy look on his face and Sherlock can’t stand it anymore.

It’s loud when they kiss because they collapse on the couch, Sherlock on top of John, and they’ll probably be bruised, and they grunt and laugh a bit when they fall. It’s awkward and annoying because Sherlock was expecting some sort of fairytale ending, or beginning, or whatever this was. But then John smiles at him, _It’s all fine_ , he says, and Sherlock smiles back and neither of them remembers when was the last time they’ve smiled like that, and their cheeks hurt and their lips are raw.

And at the end of it they catch the criminal and everyone knows why it took them so long, everyone knows because John and Sherlock are blushing and their hair is wild and their clothes are put on hastily and it’s obvious in the way they look at each other. And it’s obvious because it hasn’t changed at all, because now there’s only the kisses and the touches that are new, but it’s all the same as it was before.

They’re loud when they realise it, and they laugh breathlessly as they run back home, because they have all the energy in the world and they’re giddy and happy and finally they’re they as it was always supposed to be. They’re loud when they realise that there is no real reason not to, that they’re the heart and the mind and they can’t function without one another, not properly anyway.

They’re loud because they’ve overcome it all and they have scars to prove it, and the war is over; and they’re loud because it’s ridiculous to call it a war. It’s not a war, what a silly thought, it’s love. And the fact that they’ve won all the battles just makes it a love story worth telling.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the first fanfic I'm publishing (no reposting anywhere without my perimission and then you gotta credit me, you know, all that stuff) and I hope you enjoyed it. I got inspired by Siken's poetry, so yeah. There.


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